Chan & Callahan

Well, I’ve been watching Charlie Chan for over
half this life but something new occurred while
watching The Shanghai Cobra again. The film
begins like a film noir with a café in the raining
night. Inside, along the wall, there’s a jukebox
with a television camera connected to an
operator who lives in a little dark room behind
a bookshelf. Insert five cents for a song and
a two pronged needle shoots out and stings
with cobra venom. Suddenly I wondered,
who wrote this?? I restarted the movie and
read George Callahan. Now I’ve been trying
to find out about him and it isn’t easy. I went
through the film books, detective encyclopedias
and reference materials at the library but
nothing turned up. The internet movie database
gives the years of his life, born 1907 in
Lawrence, Massachusetts (close to where
Kerouac was born and Dr. Sax lurked),
died in Los Angeles in 1989. He wrote
8 Charlie Chan movies from 1944-1946.

Charlie Chan in the Secret Service (1944)

Charlie Chan in the Chinese Cat (1944)

Black Magic (1944)

The Jade Mask (1945)

The Scarlet Clue (1945)

The Shanghai Cobra (1945)

The Red Dragon (1945)

Dark Alibi (1946)

There are no other details of his life,
we can only observe his contributions
to the famous detective and look for clues.

After Warner Oland died in 1938, Sidney Toler
became the next Chan. Toler made eleven films
playing Charlie Chan ending with the excellent
Castle in the Desert, as World War 2 began and
20^th Century Fox dropped the series. Toler wanted
Chan to go on. In 1942 he bought the film rights
to the character from author Earl Derr Biggers’
widow. Toler spent the next two years getting
Chan back on the screen, landing at Monogram
Pictures, the home of early 1940s films like
Phantom of Chinatown and King of the Zombies.

What I wonder, as Toler searched Hollywood for
a studio, surely he must have also been looking
for a good writer. Toler’s new series began with
George Callahan’s first screen writing credit,
so it’s possible Toler and Callahan met to
thrash out the story idea for Monogram’s
initial product, Charlie Chan in the Secret
Service.

Even knowing so little about George Callahan,
there are things to be learned from these eight
films, glimpses into the mind of Callahan
revealed by his writing for Charlie Chan.

Charlie Chan in the Secret Service takes place
in a house full of curtains (a house that will be
seen again and again in the unfolding films).
A monster with photoelectric-cell eyes. A book
titled Magnetic Properties of Electricity.
Torpedo plans hidden in a Statue of Liberty.

The Chinese Cat has another book, Murder By
Madame and its Raymond Chandler-like author.
A foggy Fun House. Secret panels, more statues
with secret compartments. Sea Tide Art Company.
A skeleton in a closet. Gas through a keyhole.

Black Magic begins at a seance. A new book,
How To Disappear. Mexican jumping beans.
“Invisible bullet. That’s dime novel stuff.”
A crystal ball transmitter connected to a
basement room. A suspect maker of
magician supplies. A newsboy points,
a hypnotized woman walks off a building roof.
Secret wall panels. The skeleton returns.
A spring gun and a fake hand.

The Jade Mask. A television monitored gate
in the fog. A steaming gas chamber laboratory
with a voice-activated word combination
secret wall panel. Experiments with puppets.
Poison darts. “Dead men don’t walk.”
A dictaphone. A disembodied ear.
A deadly ventriloquist dummy.

The Scarlet Clue. The fog again. Radar secrets.
“Cosmo Radio Center. They broadcast by
television.” An actor who parodies fellow
Monogram star John Carradine, “Yes, once
I was the foremost Shakespearean actor of
my time…Now I am known only for the mask
behind which I hide when I play the Mad
Monster—on radio, screen, and television.
But still, it is a living.” A telltale shoe heel.
A ghostly typewriter. A climatic tunnel. More
Frankenstein electricity. Poison cigarettes.
An elevator with a drop-away floor.
A short-wave radio set used to explode a
capsule.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t find The Red Dragon,
it seems to have gone underground. However,
from reading the plot synopsis in a couple
different books there are familiar signs
we’re in Callahan land. A typewriter clue.
Red Dragon ink. Mysterious bullets.
The 95^th element. A remote control
thermostat.

Dark Alibi. A bank vault blast. Forged fingerprints.
“It’s not confusion, it’s Confucius.” Prison riot,
cell block 4. A theatrical warehouse.
The skeleton encores. The third missing man.

With a little more sleuthing (courtesy of
interlibrary loan) I was able to find a few
mentions of Callahan in the books devoted
to Charlie Chan on film. From A Guide to
Charlie Chan Films (Charles P. Mitchell,
Greenwood Press, 1999):
“George Callahan was the featured writer
for the Monogram pictures, and the film’s
quality declined markedly after his departure.”
Sadly there is no mention of Callahan in the
recently published Charlie Chan by Yunte
Huang (W.W. Norton & Company, 2010).
Charlie Chan at the Movies by Ken Hanke
(McFarland & Co., 1989) offers the best
insights:
"Callahan's difficulty lies in the area of
story construction, which is limp and
generally uninteresting" (Charlie Chan in

the Secret Service).
"George Callahan's screenplay is most
successful in fits and starts of clever devices
and engaging exchanges..." (The Jade Mask).
"One of George Callahan's better screenplays...
The basic mystery is better structured than a
good deal of Callahan's work

and is combined with the frequently
sharp-toned dialogue of
which he was capable, affording a very slick
B picture indeed” (The Scarlet Clue).
The Red Dragon is “by far the silliest idea
Callahan ever dreamed up and that is no
mean fact.”
Dark Alibi is “one of George Callahan’s
most witty and acid screenplays (his last
for the series). The combination makes for
a tight, beautifully made, often extremely
funny sixty-one minutes of film, quite the
last really good Toler Chan.”
Finally, after Callahan left the Chan series,
Hanke notes, “The replacement of
George Callahan with the unlikely named
Raymond Schrock as screenwriter is part
of the problem…showing even less logic
than his predecessor…” and “the plot, with
its bizarre coincidences and secret identities
makes George Callahan’s occasional flights
of fancy and lapses of logic in the Toler
Monograms seem like models of sanity.”

Obviously there was a big drop in the quality
of picture making as Charlie Chan jumped
to a B-picture studio. At Monogram, he’s
mostly confined to rooms and hallways
instead of his 1930s pre-war forays around
the world on steamships and flying boats.
But there is just as much enjoyment of a
different sort to be had in these films.
Callahan’s storylines are filled with
secret rooms, jewels and poison,
fantastic machines, tricks and
wobbling surprises. Also you can’t
overlook all the humor in his writing,
mostly delivered by Mantan Moreland,
who George Callahan featured in
another non-Chan movie script
he wrote, Captain Tugboat Annie.

But it isn’t all ‘dime novel stuff’ that
Callahan provided. It’s interesting that
Callahan foresaw the coming reign of
television and worked this still fledgling
invention into the plots of his stories.
This was especially prophetic since
that’s where Charlie Chan would be
reincarnated for the next generation
of viewers. Likewise, this is where
George Callahan would devote the
last of his screenwriting, for TV
programs like The Man Called X,
and surprise, surprise, there’s even
an episode of The Cisco Kid he wrote
entitled ‘Chinese Gold’ proving that
Charlie Chan never really left his thoughts.

update

Been busy lately working on
a Charlie Chan essay, will soon be posting
and a big manuscript of poetry covering
years 2007-2011. Here's a sneak peek:

Directions Folded to a Bird’s Wing

Walk down the steep hill, on a sidewalk

split by the roots of trees arching overhead.

Turn the corner to the left and then

you can hear the birds. It’s an aviary attached

to a house like a screened porch that’s trying

to bring the sky down and cage it in a space

only ten feet by ten. I’ve seen this through all

the seasons. In the gray wet Seattle winter

it’s covered by plastic so the cold can’t get in.

Rather than that, I’ll remember it as summer

when those African finches are singing their

hearts out and the sparrows and even the crows

will come to the bent wire corners to listen.

The Count

A long time ago in a different America
Friday night meant staying up late to
watch The Count. Transmitted to our
black and white TV at 11:45 PM, his
Nightmare Theatre would feature
the weirdest stories of monsters,
islands with foggy streets and castles.
Sometimes I would go to my friend's,
carrying sleeping bag, through backyards
under washlines and trees. It was a
long wait as the windows went black
until finally, by then in sleeping bags,
The Count's show would begin.
Wolves howled, thunder, a ghoulish
organ wheezed, and the camera
would ease you at a slow walking pace
past the stone dungeon walls, a torch,

towards his waiting coffin.

The Count was very real to us,
I don't think I ever doubted him,
he lived to haunt us.

One Halloween my father made
a cardboard coffin for our porch
and terrified trick or treaters as
The Count. I could hear them
shrieking far up the nighttime
street from our house. Probably
that same Halloween the real Count
was appearing at the Seattle Center.
At blackest night of course.
I remember him on the spotlit stage
in his cape. Green skin. Behind him
was the Haunted House, which
I refused to enter. He waved people in,
but I could see the cage with a gorilla
striking out furry arms. I knew all
about gorillas from watching his
show. All The Count's movies
have turned into dreams, but I do
remember him screening
Monolith Monsters.

Of course movie hosts were a dying breed.
By the 1980s they were virtually extinct.
The last I remember seeing in the Seattle area
was the 'Dialing for Dollars' host (who made
it into one of my unpublished novels) and
a guy named Red who was only there to
plug his restaurant on Lake City Way.
I do recall a great colorized Bela Lugosi
film he showed.
So with all these memories,
it came as a welcome surprise to see
that our local TV station was touting
a late night monster movie host.
The following letters tell what
happened next:

Dear Svengoolie,

My son Rustle and I have been so excited
to see your show tonight at 10. He's 7
and it was tough work to stay up this late.
We made it, but your show isn't on! It's some
crummy show called 'House' instead.
What gives? We sure missed you.
Hope to see you someday.

Reply.............

Me-TV is a National network with affiliates
in markets across the country. While many
affiliates choose to carry our entire program
schedule, many elect to add local
programming including news and sports
telecasts to their schedules as part of their
service to their communities. You may wish
to view your local Me-TV affiliate website or
contact your local affiliated station for
additional information about the local
programming offered on the Me-TV
Network channel.

Sincerely,

Me-TV Network

My Next Letter.............

Good day,

I am writing regarding a dastardly
programming error on Saturday evening.
Twice now my son and I have stayed up late,
lured by your promise to show Svengoolie
at 10 PM only to be callously let down by
the monosyllabic appearance of 'House'
instead. I originally wrote to Svengoolie
himself in hopes that he would fly out here
at midnight and bite some necks, but my
letter to him was intercepted by a network
minion who told me to write my local station
first. You have shown great tact in other
program choices especially the
Pickford Classic Movie hosted by
local Professor Askari. Hopefully you
will have the good sense to put Svengoolie
on as promised, we're Counting on you!

Thanks

4 Shacks

Just watched 'Moontide' (1942) again, which features
a fantastic set, stone breakwater and fish shack:

which reminded me of the fish shack in
'Pickup on South Street' (1953)

which is like the one in Chaplin's 'Modern Times' (1936)

and also a home in 'The Mermaid Translation' (2010)

Snotty Kid

This is a little book
I made back around 1994
for Pliny.

The Extra Television Day Stars

Borders anthology & Inkspeak
recently published
'Abandoned Television Stars'
and 'The Extra Day'

Euphonium

Lon Tupperman cornered her in the hall and

his beady eyes locked her in place. “My son’s got a new

record,” he said. “You have to buy one.”

She had heard about this son many times

of course. Jerry Tupperman was 17 and the way his

father carried on you would think he was the greatest

euphonium player since…well, ever.

“Oh,” Ruth said. “He’s been working on that

record for a while now?”

“It just came out. I’ve got a box of them. Burt

already bought one.”

“I don’t actually have any money on me.”

“That’s okay, you can pay me later. Twenty

bucks. I’ll bring you one.”

“Oh…” she repeated.

“It’s brilliant. I guarantee you’ll like it.”

“I’m sure I will.”

“Money back guarantee.”

“Okay Lon.”

Lon smiled. “Okay then.” He eased back a little,

his hands had dropped to his side. That was all he

needed to tell her.

Ruth said, “Thanks Lon,” and made her way

around him. She carried her teacup and a little sealed

bag of green tea, went about twenty more steps down

the hallway to the big water tank planted against

the wall.

She pressed the red button on the tank and

filled her cup with steamy water. She knew there

was no way out of it. Lon would hound her for the

money. Anyway, she smiled, she had become a sort

of patron to Jerry Tupperman. After all, she had

his first recital, a 45 single. ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’

played like something hurtling out of a subway

tunnel, shrieking at you full force. She had also

been present on two cold Thanksgiving parades

when the boy marched past with his euphonium.

So yes, she supposed there was no way around

purchasing his latest endeavor. She wasn’t even

surprised when she reached her desk to find the

album waiting for her, leaning against the

typewriter.

On the cover a young man rested next to

a merry-go-round. He wore a purple turtleneck

sweater and held a shining euphonium bundled

under his arm. Jerry Tupperman was printed at

the top, followed below by the big yellow lettered

title, Gurdies.

“Oh boy,” Ruth muttered. She set down her

tea cup and sat. She glanced at the clock. Three

more hours to go.

The time went the usual way, typing

cards, adding them to filing cabinets. At 5, she

was done for the day. This part was a bit of a

routine, following her coworkers out of the

building, the sidewalks were wet with spring

rain, city crowds, her shoes clicking on the

cement, going two blocks to the trolley stop.

She kept the awkward sized album tucked

under her raincoat and waited. Pedal cars

went by tossing a fine spray into the air

next to the curb, hitting puddles with a

splash.

When the trolley arrived, pulled by two soaking

yaks, Ruth’s coat shined with wet.

She crowded on, down the aisle and grabbed

a post to hold on. She held her other arm over the

record pressing it to her.

The trolley was full of office workers and

merchants going home. Someone with a Victrola

sat in the seat next to Ruth, the horn of it pressed

into her whenever the trolley jolted. She thought

of putting Jerry’s record on and giving it a spin.

The sound of his euphonium would probably

send people fleeing out the door, giving her a

chance to sit. It was a long ride to her stop on

Mulberry Hill.

“Cedar Avenue,” the driver’s voice crackled

from the speaker and everyone staggered as the

trolley halted. Like a tide, they all fell back a few

steps as more passengers got on.

Ruth held to a chair that a very old man

occupied. She looked over his frail shoulder to

share the book he was reading. This was one of

her favorites trolley activities. Whenever she

could, she would eavesdrop on someone’s

reading. She put the words together into an

adventure in her mind as if it was all one book.

So far this week she had been a deep-sea diver,

a cook preparing Irish stew, she had been in

a crossword puzzle, and got lost in the cryptic

jumble of the stock market, and now this.

The old man held a paperback mystery up

close to his chin. She was in a dark house

carrying a candle before her when the trolley

came to a sudden lurching stop. Ruth actually

gave a little yelp, she couldn’t help it, she

almost fell. A baby was crying, something

broke on the floor, people all over the trolley

were muttering and making noise.

The very old man turned his turtle-like

neck and asked Ruth, “What’s happened?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “We’ve stopped.”

She couldn’t see why though. She craned around

all the trolley riders. The windows were fogged

up and dotted with rain, there was no way to

know what occurred until the speaker in the

ceiling announced, “Ladies and gentlemen,

we’ve had an accident.” Everyone groaned.

It sounded like the wind in a euphonium.

“What is it?” the old man asked Ruth, cupping his ear.

“An accident. There’s been an accident.”

Amid all the muttering and jostling, Ruth

could feel the cool air from the door that had

just clacked open ahead of her.

A man in a bowler hat, carrying an easel

tipped and shoved past her, steaming for the

door. He prompted several others to abandon

ship as well.

Ruth could see down the aisle, out the

split screen windshield of the trolley. It was

an accident all right. The yaks were feeding

from the bright spray of a crushed flower stand.

She could see the driver out there swatting

the beasts, waving his arms. There was a

woman in a blue apron shouting at him.

“Good Lord,” Ruth muttered.

The driver pulled on the reigns and

tackle, but the yaks were intent on eating

every flower in sight. No blow could sink

through their thick matted hair. More people

were leaving the trolley. Ruth couldn’t blame

them, but she still had a long way to go.

She watched the family with the crying baby,

followed by a boy carrying a fishbowl, all

heading for the doorway. The driver wasn’t

having any luck. The lady in the apron held

a stalk of bent iris. She was crying.

Three seats from her, Ruth saw the

man with the Victrola stand up as if to leave.

“Hold on!” she called to him, having an

idea and hurrying into it before it could fly

away.

Carrying the record player, he turned

the horn towards her.

“I think I know how to get those yaks

moving again.” Ruth tapped the contraption

in his arms. “Can I borrow this?”

Jerry Tupperman was about to receive

his most infamous audience and as a result,

by tomorrow the news would carry and set sail

and within a week his Gurdies recording

would be outselling everything from coast

to coast. It would be played as a foghorn for

ships, a tornado alarm, to clear your home of

pests, or played on trolleys as a cure for yaks.